The night air hung thick with tension, as if the moon itself held its breath.
Aria stood at the edge of the glade, her fingers tracing the ancient runes carved into the monolith at the forest's heart. The glowing etchings pulsed faintly beneath her touch, reacting to the thread of power still humming through her veins. She wasn't sure if the whispers were in her mind or bleeding from the stone.
Vaelora.
The name had come to her in a dream—but it hadn't felt like a dream. More like a memory that didn't belong to her. A voice—hers and not hers—had spoken it with reverence and dread.
"You felt it too, didn't you?" Caleb's voice pulled her from her daze.
She turned. His silhouette emerged from between the trees, moonlight catching the pale scars on his neck. Since the battle at the Mirror Gate, he'd changed—not just in power, but in presence. His aura had grown steadier, sharper, more grounded. But the tenderness in his gaze hadn't dulled. If anything, it had deepened.
